Morland was under no illusions that the town’s troubles—or, more particularly, his troubles—were at an end. Those responsible for the partial destruction of his town might well decide to return. He recalled the words of the man at the cemetery: “The pastor has been telling me a lot about you.” Even in his final moments, Warraner had found a way to screw him over. At least Bryan Joblin was dead too. He was one loose end about whom Morland no longer needed to worry.
Let them come, Morland thought. Let them come, and I will face them down. Next time I’ll be ready, and I will kill them where they stand.
Morland didn’t hear the woman approach. He no longer had his own office. His desk was just one part of the jumble of town services in the old hall. People were constantly arriving and departing, and there was a steady hum of noise.
“Lucas.”
He turned from the window. Constance Souleby was standing before him. She held a gun in her hand: an old Colt. It did not shake, for the woman holding it was a picture of calm.
“You could have spared him,” she said.
He was aware of movement behind her, of someone approaching fast. He heard cries of shock. The gun had been noticed.
“I am—” Morland said.
The gun spoke in denial, and he ceased to be.
The forenoon is burn-faced and wandering
And I am the death of the moon.
Below my countenance the bell of the night has broken
And I am the new divine wolf.
Adonis (Ali Ahmad Said Esber), “The Divine Wolf”
CHAPTER
LVIII
Ronald Straydeer was standing in his yard when the car arrived. Winter was departing, and he was piling the snow behind the woodshed, where it could melt away and be damned without him having to see it.
He rested his hands on his shovel as the car drew to a halt, and felt a small ache of fear when the two men emerged from it. He hadn’t seen or spoken to them since that night in Prosperous, but they weren’t men who liked to leave loose ends. They had no cause for concern on his part, nor on the part of those whom he had brought with him to put Prosperous to the torch. Some had already left the state. Those who remained would keep silent.
The two men leaned on their car doors and regarded him.
“Beautiful day,” said Angel.
“Yes, it is.”
“Looks like winter may be ending.”
“Yes.”
Angel looked at Louis. Louis shrugged.
“We came to thank you,” said Angel. “We’re going to see Parker, then we’re heading home. It’s time for us to get back to civilization.”
“I’ve called the hospital,” said Ronald. “They tell me there’s no change.”
“There’s always hope,” said Angel.
“Yes,” said Ronald. “I believe that’s true.”
“Anyway,” said Angel, “we have a gift for you, I guess, if you want it.”
He opened the rear door of the car and reached inside. When he emerged again, he held a female German shepherd puppy in his arms. He walked up to Ronald, placed the dog at his feet, and held out the leash. Ronald didn’t take it. He looked at the dog. The dog sat for a moment, scratched itself, then stood and placed its front paws against Ronald’s right leg.
“Parker talked about you,” said Angel. “He used to tell us it was time you got another dog. He thought you might be starting to feel the same way too.”
Ronald put the shovel aside. He leaned down and scratched the puppy’s head. It wriggled with joy and continued trying to climb his leg.
Ronald took the leash from Angel and unclipped it from the dog’s collar.
“You want to come with me?” he said to the dog.
He began walking toward his home. Without looking back at Angel, the dog followed, leaping to keep up with the long strides of its master.
“Thank you,” said Ronald Straydeer.
Louis got back into the car. Angel joined him.
“Told you he’d keep the dog,” said Louis.
“Yeah. I think you’re getting soft in your old age.”
“That may be.”
He reversed out of Ronald’s drive.
“How come we never got a dog?” said Angel.
“I don’t need a dog,” said Louis. “I got you.”
“Right,” said Angel.
He thought about it for a moment.
“Hey . . .”
CHAPTER
LIX
I sat on the bench by the lake, my daughter by my side. We did not speak.
On an outcrop of land to the east stood a wolf. He watched us as we watched him.
A shadow fell across the bench, and I saw my dead wife reflected in the water. She touched my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of her.
“It’s time,” she said. “You must decide.”
I heard the sound of a car approaching. I glanced over my shoulder. Parked on the road was a white 1960 Ford Falcon. I had seen pictures of it. It was the first car that my father and mother ever owned outright. A man sat in the driver’s seat, a woman beside him. I could not see their faces, but I knew who they were. I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to tell them that I was sorry. I wanted to say what every child wishes to say to his parents when they’re gone and it’s too late to say anything at all: that I loved them, and had always loved them.
“Can I talk to them?” I asked.
“Only if you go with them,” said my dead wife. “Only if you choose to take the Long Ride.”
I saw the heads of the people in the car turn toward me. I still could not see their faces.
No more pain, I thought. No more pain.
From the hills beyond the lake arose a great howling. I saw the wolf raise his muzzle to the clear blue sky in response to the summoning, and the clamor from the hills grew louder and more joyous, but still the wolf did not move. His eyes were fixed on me.
No more pain. Let it end.
My daughter reached out and took my hand. She pressed something cold into it. I opened my fingers and saw a dark stone on my palm, smooth on one side, damaged on the other.
My daughter.
But I had another.
“If you take the Long Ride, I’ll go with you,” she said. “But if you stay, then I’ll stay with you too.”
I stared at the car, trying to see the faces behind the glass. I slowly shook my head. The heads turned from me, and the car pulled away. I watched it until it was gone. When I looked back at the lake, the wolf was still there. He gazed at me for a moment longer, then slipped into the trees, yipping and howling as he went, and the pack called out its welcome.
The stone felt heavy in my hand. It wanted to be thrown. When it was, this world would shatter, and another would take its place. Already I could feel a series of burnings as my wounds began to sing. My dead wife’s hand remained on my shoulder, but its touch was growing colder. She whispered something in my ear—a name, a warning—but I was already struggling to remember it once the final word was spoken. Her reflection in the water began to dim as mine started to come into focus beside it. I tried to hold on tighter to my daughter’s hand.
“Just a little while longer,” I said. “Just—”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First of all, the Family of Love did exist, and much of their history as recounted in this book is true. Whether they ever made it to the New World, I cannot say, but I am grateful to Joseph W. Martin’s Relgious Radicals in Tudor England (Hambledon Continuum, 1989) for increasing my small store of knowledge of them. The history of the foliate heads on churches is also true, and the following books proved highly illuminating, and slightly disturbing: The Green Man in Britain, by Fran and Geoff Doel (The History Press, 2010); The Green Man, by Kathleen Basford (D. S. Brewer, 1998); and A Litt
le Book of the Green Man, by Mike Harding (Aurum Press, 1998).
The Oxford Street Shelter, the Portland Help Center, Skip Murphy’s Sober House, and Amistad are all real agencies that provide critically important services to the homeless and the mentally ill in the Portland area. Thanks very much to Karen Murphy and Peter Driscoll of Amistad, Sonia Garcia of Spurwick, and Joe Riley of Skip Murphy’s for permission to mention these organizations by name. If you would like to donate to any of these organizations, or get more information about their services, you may do so here:
Amistad Inc.
www.amistadinc.com
PO Box 992
Portand, ME 04101
207-773-1956
Oxford Street Shelter
203 Oxford Street
Portland, ME 04101
207-761-2072
The Portland Help Center (Spurwink Services)
www.spurwink.org
899 Riverside Street
Portland, ME 04013
888-889-3903
Skip Murphy’s Sober Living
www.skipmurphys.com/soberhouse
P.O. Box 8117
Portland, ME 04104
774-269-4700
My thanks, as always, go to Sue Fletcher, Swati Gamble, Kerry Hood, Lucy Hale, Auriol Bishop, and all at Hodder & Stoughton; Breda Purdue, Jim Binchy, Ruth Shern, Siobhan Tierney, Frank Cronin, and all at Hachette Ireland; Emily Bestler, Judith Curr, Megan Reid, David Brown, Louise Burke, and the staff at Atria/Emily Bestler Books and Pocket Books; and my agent Darley Anderson and his wonderful team. Clair Lamb and Madeira James do sterling work, looking after Web sites and much, much more. Jennie Ridyard has now become my fellow author as well as my other half in life, but continues to show remarkable forbearance with me, as do our sons, Cameron and Alistair. To you, the reader, thank you for continuing to read these odd little books. Without you, there really wouldn’t be much point to all this.
And hello to Jason Isaacs.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo Credit: Ivan Gimenez Costa
John Connolly is the author of The Wrath of Angels, The Burning Soul, The Book of Lost Things, and Bad Men, among many others. He is a regular contributor to The Irish Times and lives in Dublin, Ireland. For more information, see his website at JohnConnollyBooks.com, or follow him on Twitter @JConnollyBooks.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
authors.simonandschuster.com/John-Connolly
THE CHARLIE PARKER STORIES
Every Dead Thing
Dark Hollow
The Killing Kind
The White Road
The Reflecting Eye
(Novella In The Nocturnes Collection)
The Black Angel
The Unquiet
The Reapers
The Lovers
The Whisperers
The Burning Soul
The Wrath of Angels
OTHER WORKS
Bad Men
Nocturnes
The Book of Lost Things
The Wonders in Unknown Realms
THE SAMUEL JOHNSON STORIES (FOR YOUNG ADULTS)
The Gates
The Infernals
The Creeps
THE CHRONICLES OF THE INVADERS (WITH JENNIFER RIDYARD)
Conquest
NONFICTION
Books to Die For: The World’s Greatest Mystery Writers on the World’s Greatest Mystery Novels
(Edited By John Connolly And Declan Burke)
We hope you enjoyed reading this Emily Bestler Books/Atria eBook.
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Emily Bestler Books/Atria Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by John Connolly
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
Gerald Hausman kindly gave permission to quote from his book Meditations with the Navajo (Bear & Company/InnerTraditions, 2001).
“The Divine Wolf” by Adonis, translated by Khaled Mattawa, is cited with the kind permission of the author and the Yale University Press, publisher of Adonis: Selected Poems (2010), in which this poem appears.
First Emily Bestler Books/Atria Books hardcover edition October 2014
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Interior Design by Paul Dippolito
Jacket design by Henry Sene Yee
Jacket photograph: Wolf in Winter © John E. Marriott / All Canada Photos/Getty Images
Footsteps on the Snow © Alexander Chaikin/Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Connolly, John.
The wolf in winter : a Charlie Parker thriller / by John Connolly.—First Emily Bestler Books/Atria Books Hardcover edition.
pages cm
I. Title.
PR6053.O48645W65 2014
823'.914—dc23
2014004196
ISBN 978-1-4767-0318-3
ISBN 978-1-4767-0320-6 (ebook)
Contents
* * *
Dedication
1. Hunting
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
2. Trapping
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
3. Killing
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV<
br />
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
4. Returning
Chapter LVIII
Chapter LIX
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Wolf in Winter Page 38